


Morning Light

by paperficwriter



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:12:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9832694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperficwriter/pseuds/paperficwriter
Summary: Hanzo reminisces about spending mornings with Jesse.





	

Hanzo rises with the sun. As a child, his room faced the east, and the dawn filled him with neither dread nor disruption. On the contrary, happiness flooded him like water into a bucket, and he rose immediately to run and bask in a life lived as soon as possible. Cloudy mornings…those earned his disdain. **  
**

Jesse McCree, however, clings to sleep as if it will save him from everything else in his life. He never stirs when Hanzo slips out of his arms, because he resides in some deeper state of limbo from midnight to late morning. Even when nothing rouses him save his own internal functions, his brows knit, his jaw tightens, and he grunts. Quite a bit.

But there is something about the Jesse of the morning that enamors Hanzo the most. Something about how everything is softer, more relaxed. Certainly, Jesse’s carefree aura is a staple to his personality, but in the morning, it feels natural beneath his fingers, a happy calm. Jesse isn’t awake enough to be trying so hard, to be brash and loud. Not yet.

So they always meet in the kitchen, no matter what time it ends up being. Jesse, in some over-sized t-shirt and boxers, Hanzo in the cotton slacks he wears around the house and, if he hasn’t been training, one of McCree’s old flannel shirts. His favorite is the blue one. Of course.

“Mornin,’ darlin,’” Jesse mumble-drawls more into his neck then his ear, pressing against his side heavily.

Hanzo raises a hand up to rub against his jaw, listening to the sound his fingers make against the stubble. Jesse asks at least a few times a week if he wants him to shave, and Hanzo always says no. He does eventually regardless (“I ain’t about to let you date some bear man, Hanzo. Wanna at least pretend to be civilized for ya.”).

“Good morning,” he says, picking up the mug from the counter with his free hand. “I have made coffee for you.”

“Aww, Hanzy. You shouldn’t have.” Jesse sounds like it is a great gift, this too-bitter beverage, and Hanzo makes a face. Both at his tone and the pet name.

“And risk you falling asleep at our table and defiling it with your saliva?” Hanzo pats his chest as he takes a sip of the white tea he has made for himself. “I think not. Never again.”

“C’mon, that was one time –”

“Three times.”

Jesse chuckles. “I told ya, that last time didn’t count. I was still groggy from those pills Angie gave me after that scrappin’ with the guys downtown.” He reaches up to tug at Hanzo’s hairtie, believing perhaps that he is somehow being covert about it. Hanzo bats his hand away. He immediately returns to try again. “Those things packed enough punch to knock out an elephant.”

Hanzo lightly slaps his wrist this time. “Jesse. No,” he says, in a tone like he’s admonishing an overly playful dog.

It’s a fair comparison, because here come the big eyes, the forlorn lower lip. “Please, dumplin’ bun? It looks real good down.”

Hanzo releases a soft sigh, then lets him pull out the elastic band. Immediately, his shoulder-length black hair dangles down his neck, and Jesse is all smiles: content, sated, utterly pleased. And Hanzo can’t be too disgruntled, because he does enjoy the way the man runs his palm up the back of his neck, under his hairline, and strokes at the roots, rubbing his scalp. In fact, his eyes flutter shut, and it doesn’t matter that they are still just leaning together against the kitchen counter. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asks softly as Jesse bumps his forehead against his.

“Naw. Not yet.”

Hanzo is going to say something more, about how he should eat something, about how late it is, but then Jesse lazily kisses him. Well, it isn’t fair to say that it’s ‘lazy,’ but the touch is slow and soft, without agenda or eagerness. It’s as if Jesse is still dreaming, still sleeping, like he’s pulling Hanzo into it with him. For all the joy of daylight, Hanzo wants nothing more than to bask in the beams of warmth that are Jesse’s arms.

“Anata,” Hanzo whispers against his lips, fondly, touching Jesse’s cheek with one finger, gazing into those heavy-lidded eyes.

“Yeah?” he asks, softly.

Hanzo just guides him back in, tasting coffee and earth and desert on Jesse’s tongue. It is a very small window, these mornings, and Hanzo will allow himself to indulge.


End file.
